


Skyrim vs. Edgar Allen Poe

by haunter_ielle



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, POE Edgar Allan - Works
Genre: This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 21:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12329232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haunter_ielle/pseuds/haunter_ielle
Summary: I'm bored so I'll be reinterpreting Edgar Allen Poe-try from the perspective of various Skyrim characters and OCs.OBVIOUSLY I AM NOT EDGAR AND I DID NOT WRITE THE ORIGINAL POEMS. I HAVE NOTHING BUT RESPECT FOR THE GUY AND I AM NOT PLAGIARIZING. HE IS CREDITED. PLZ DON'T FLAG ME.





	Skyrim vs. Edgar Allen Poe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bug bothers the hell out of Aela.
> 
> An interpretation of The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

   While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

           Only this and nothing more.”

 

   Ah, distinctly I recall it was the bleak month of Frostfall;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

   Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

   From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Skjor—

For the rare and radiant warrior whom the angels name Skjor—

           Nameless here for evermore.

 

   And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

   So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

   “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

           This it is and nothing more.”

 

   Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

   But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

   And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

           Darkness there and nothing more.

 

   Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

   But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

   And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Skjor?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Skjor!”—

           Merely this and nothing more.

 

   Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

   “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

     Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

           ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

 

   Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Dartwing of the saintly days of yore;

   Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

   But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

           Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

Then this crimson insect beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Dartwing wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

           Quoth the Dartwing “Nevermore.”

 

   Much I marvelled this ungainly mite to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

   For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

   Ever yet was blessed with seeing insect above his chamber door—

insect or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

           With such name as “Nevermore.”

 

   But the Dartwing, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

   Nothing farther then he uttered—not a torn wing then he fluttered—

   Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

           Then the insect said “Nevermore.”

 

   Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

   Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

   Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

           Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

 

   But the Dartwing still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of insect, and bust and door;

   Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

   Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous insect of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous insect of yore

           Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

 

   This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the mite whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

   This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

   On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

           She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

   Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

   “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

   Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Skjor;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Skjor!”

           Quoth the Dartwing “Nevermore.”

 

   “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if insect or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

   Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

   On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Skyrim?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

           Quoth the Dartwing “Nevermore.”

 

   “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if insect or devil!

By that Sovngarde that bends above us—by that Gods we both adore—

   Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Sovngarde,

   It shall clasp a sainted warrior whom the angels name Skjor—

Clasp a rare and radiant warrior whom the angels name Skjor.”

           Quoth the Dartwing “Nevermore.”

 

   “Be that word our sign of parting, insect or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

   Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

   Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy buzz from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

           Quoth the Dartwing “Nevermore.”

 

   And the Dartwing, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Hircine just above my chamber door;

   And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

   And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

           Shall be lifted—nevermore!


End file.
